The denizens of Stratford Palace wish a Happy Veterans Day to all who have served in the armed forces of the USA. The cats are not particularly thankful for anything, but the caretaker is grateful for the sacrifices that our veterans and their families have made in the cause of freedom.
That said, the caretaker took the opportunity of having a holiday from work to take the cats to the vet. She decided it would be nice to go a weekday for a change rather than spoil a perfectly good Caturday. Bear went first, and we are sorry to report there are some concerns about her health again. While the blood work is being done, we wait in hope, but it appears at the very least that her diabetes has returned. This type of relapse happens in 25–30% of cases, and while it is disappointing, it will not shake the solid foundations of Stratford Palace. We have survived much worse.
But on a much happier note, Buddy is as fit as a fiddle, if the fiddle is slightly overweight (ahem) and has a clogged tear duct that requires eye drops twice daily. Also if the fiddle is more than a little miffed at having been confined to a crate, transported for several miles, and then poked and prodded by women who were deceptively pretty and soft-spoken.
As maddening as all that may be, Buddy’s actual beef is with the caretaker, who was eminently tricksy for this vet visit. The caretaker has been through fire and death, and as a result, she has very few fears these days, but she still dreads having to put Buddy in the cat carrier, probably because of the history of injuries she has sustained during said process.
This morning after she returned from Bear’s visit, she cleared the bedding out of the carrier and inserted fresh bedding, leaving the carrier open in the dining room floor. While planning how to wrangle Buddy into submission, she did the only sensible thing, which was to make a cup of tea. If she had learned nothing else from binge-watching Downton Abbey, she knew that a nice hot cuppa will solve any problem. Were all of your heirs lost at sea? Let me fix you a strong pot of Earl Grey. Were all of your potential suitors sent to fight the Germans? Then you must, simply must, drink this cup of Oolong. Did you lose the family fortune by investing in a dodgy railroad? Here, have a cup of Darjeeling. Have all your daughters abandoned traditional values? This calls for English Breakfast tea. And scones.
And just like magic, the power of tea saved the day. While the caretaker sipped her Royal English Breakfast tea and contemplated the ways that she might insert one flailing cat into a crate that has an unpredictable door, she heard a slight rattle. She leaned around the corner just in time to see that Buddy had been unable to resist the urge to explore an open box. He had walked all the way in and was busy exploring the nether portions of the crate. All she had to do was reach over and shut the door.
The caretaker then carted a very confused, very irritated cat to the vet while he cried and cursed and clattered against the side of the crate. He told everyone in the waiting room what a terrible trick had been played on him, but as he expected, they were merely hoomans who were unable to understand his superior language and therefore could not properly commiserate with him. One lady spoke gently to him and said he had beautiful eyes, so he determined that in the apocalypse he was planning she would be allowed to live and probably to be his new caretaker, depending upon whether she was waiting for a dog to be brought out from the back.
But before he could get the nice lady’s contact information he was whisked to an examining room, humiliated, and then carted back home, where he skulked and sulked for at least an hour. Then his better nature prevailed, and he graciously approached the caretaker and allowed her to stroke his regal head. Since he had found himself back in the place where he had heretofore been treated like the king he is, he decided that the apocalypse would simply have to wait.
At least until after dinner.